tagIncest/TabooMy Mother, My Lover Ch. 01

My Mother, My Lover Ch. 01

bybumblegrum©

This story is concerned with mother/son incest. If this subject offends you, please read no further. All the characters in this story are aged 18 years or over at the relevant times.

I would like to thank Hatsuda for his advice and assistance with editing -- and for giving me the confidence to continue writing.

WARNING

Please note that this story carries very little, if any, overt sexual activity. It is very much more concerned with setting the scene for what follows. But Chapter 2 is more graphic, and will be coming very soon (so to speak).


*

I had been aware that my parents' marriage had difficulties even when I was quite young. Visiting friends' houses, I could see that they were the generally positive and cheerful. That's not to say that I felt any real sense of conflict at home, more that the environment sometimes seemed to be a bit strained and a little uneasy.

My parents, in particular my mother, were very supportive and caring, at least in my younger years. Things changed later, and not for the better. My father, Denzel J Mason, was a successful lawyer, a hard man who grew more arrogant as he became more successful. He spent increasing amounts of time away from home, which led to some friction with my Mum, Carole.

I have always seen Mum as a stunningly beautiful woman. She had married Dad when she was only 16; a shotgun wedding, and I was born four months later. She was always warm and caring towards me, but I sometimes got the impression that she didn't really understand how to be a mum and that she was a little uncomfortable with childish behaviour.

Physically, Mum was quite tall, about 5'8", with a perfectly proportioned body and weighed about 140 lbs. 36C breasts held high on a firm rib cage with a waist that tapered to delightfully flared hips and a very sexy bum. Then legs that didn't quit, strong and well shaped. She had long, thick, soft dark brown hair with deep red highlights when seen in a particular light and she always seemed to wear it up in a French roll; I rarely saw her with it down below her shoulders. Deep, rich brown radiant eyes that a man could almost drown in, although they not infrequently seemed to hold a tinge of sadness. Her eyes were set in an oval face that was unusually symmetrical, and I always thought there was a vague similarity to Julia Roberts at her best.

But more than that, Mum was elegant. She carried herself with a natural grace and poise and seemed to glide across a floor. She always dressed well and was well groomed, apart from day-to-day domesticity, when jeans and a tee shirt sufficed. Even then, she looked gorgeous. Mum had a beautiful rich, deep velvety voice which I found both soothing and stimulating, and I can't remember any occasion when she was directly critical of or angry with me.

As I moved into my teenage years, she became my gold standard for female desirability and she figured increasingly strongly in my masturbation fantasies. I never got to see her naked, but once or twice I had caught a glimpse of her in bra and panties; she only ever wore fine lingerie and I had seen the shadow of her nipples and the suggestion of a brown muff which kept my right hand busy for days.

Neither my mother nor father was socially minded. They attended business dinners and cocktail parties, and I was blessed (or cursed) with a succession of babysitters, none of whom I really remember now, and by about age 14 I was deemed able to look after myself. But there was rarely any entertaining at home, and I was banished to my room on the rare occasions that that happened. Our home was an old two-storey late-Victorian place that Dad had picked up for a song from a deceased estate, although Mum later told me that she was none too convinced of the legitimacy of the deal. It was full of heavy furniture and drapes that Dad seemed to prefer, although that caused Mum ongoing problems to keep clean, even when we had someone to clean the house regularly.

Mum was a very smart woman who had put herself through college, much to Dad's disapproval, I believe. She had become an accountant and later a senior financial officer in a government department.

By around my 16th birthday, there had been a shift in our internal family politics. Dad was spending even more time away, and I knew that Mum had become quite lonely and isolated. I had also seen a hint of sadness in her lovely eyes when she thought I wasn't looking. So I deliberately set out to provide her with some degree of intellectual companionship. We would sit down after a meal and talk about anything and everything.

At first, Mum seemed to find this odd, and asked me if I wouldn't prefer to be with people of my own age. However, I persisted, and we became comfortable with each other; I was able to tease her very gently and challenge her respectfully about some of her ideas. But never about money -- Mum was absolutely on the ball about anything with a dollar sign in front of it.

I was surprised, however, about her understanding -- or lack of it - about human relationships. She seemed to be naïve to the point of ignorance about how people felt about each other. Once or twice I tried to explore her relationship with Dad, but Mum wouldn't be drawn and always answered in a vague non-committal way. I was curious about why I never had a brother or sister, but I later learned that Mum had fallen pregnant a few years after I was born. However, the baby was stillborn, and both Dad, but more particularly, Mum went through a very bad time. As a result, Dad insisted that Mum should have her tubes tied, and at that time, Mum agreed as she didn't want to go through that trauma again. However, I suspect that the real reason was that Dad didn't want any more infants getting under his feet. Not a naturally enthusiastic father.

I did learn a little about Mum's family. Her father had been a strict disciplinarian and her mother had been a timid nonentity who had died shortly after the birth of my mother's younger sister, always known in the family as "Dee-Dee". They had an older brother, Donny, five years older than Mum who had been a sort of substitute parent and mentor for Mum. Her father died when I was about five years old; I didn't remember anything about him and Mum rarely mentioned him.

In retrospect, I can see that Mum came to rely more and more on me for support and intellectual stimulation. This came to a watershed just after I turned eighteen, and Uncle Donny was killed in a car accident. Mum was devastated and insisted that she should go to the funeral although it was at short notice and interstate. Mum naturally asked dad to go with her, but he refused point blank. "Carole, I'm in the middle of an important case and I don't have the time."

"But Den, he's my only brother and I loved him so much," she sobbed.

"Look, Carole, I thought I made myself plain. I'm not going -- if you want to be present, you're quite capable of going by yourself," upon which he turned and left the room.

I had been present during this exchange, and it was very clear that Mum was deeply distressed. I moved over to where she was standing, sobbing and shaking, and took her in my arms, making soothing, comforting noises and rubbing her back very gently.

"Mum, I would be only too happy to go with you to Uncle Donny's funeral. From what little I saw of him, I liked him, but I do know how important he was to you. I'll go with you; you can cry on my shoulder, and I'll take a good supply of clean handkerchiefs."

Mum looked up at me through her tears and gave me a watery smile. "Jesse, that is so sweet of you. If you're really sure, I'll take you up on that. Thank you so much."

"Okay, Mum, you book the tickets and I'll be your escort. Do you expect to stay overnight?" I asked with some sort of adolescent fantasy about sharing a bed with her.

"No, honey, we'll get the red eye in the morning and back on the last flight. It'll be a very tiring day, but at least we should sleep well that night."

Dad merely huffed and grunted when I told him -- he simply had no interest in the matter.

Mum and I left by taxi at an obscenely early hour two days later. She was dressed in a dark charcoal grey suit with a dark blue ruffle at her neck and a black hat. She hardly spoke at all during the flight, and as we were rather early, we had a light breakfast at the airport. Mum told me more about Uncle Donny, how he had always stood up for her when they were kids, but still expected her to toe the line and behave as a "proper young lady". Which she did, as Uncle Donny was so kind and caring, although her pregnancy had come as a shock to the whole family, Mum not least of all. Now Donny was gone, and I understood that she had no-one else to turn to in an emergency.

We got a taxi to the funeral home for a service, of sorts, and a cremation with light refreshments afterwards, and I found myself talking to my Aunt Dee-Dee. She took me to one side with a look of concern on her face, "Jesse, I don't know if you realise how much your mother depended on Donny. Now she has no-one she can really confide in."

"Yes, but she has Dad, Aunt Dee-Dee," I suggested.

A shadow passed over my aunt's face. "I have to be so careful, Jesse, because I know he's your father and you love him, but he's not, well, shall we say, the most simpatico of people, even to those close to him."

I knew it to be true, the fact that he had rejected Mum's pleas to come today was evidence of this. But the knowledge gave me no pleasure. "Well, Aunt Dee-Dee, even though I'm only eighteen, I can assure you that Mum can rely on me, and I will support her in any way I can," I affirmed with the unquenchable certainty of youth.

"Thank you, honey," my aunt replied smiling, and we went our separate ways.

Mum was quiet and pale on the journey home, withdrawing into her own thoughts, but as we came through the front door of our house, she burst into a torrent of tears, sobbing, "Oh god, I miss him so."

As I might have guessed, Dad wasn't home, so I took Mum in my arms and tried to comfort her, stroking her back, kissing the tears as they fell from her eyes, and making little soothing noises in her ear. "Mum, I know there aren't any words that will take the pain away, but just know that I'm here for you and will do whatever I can to help."

Mum looked at me through her tears and tried to smile. "Thank you, sweetheart -- you'll never know how important that is to me," and she kissed me softly and briefly on my lips. "Now I'm going to bed, and I'll sleep for as long as I need to;" she stroked my cheek lightly with a warm soft hand, and was gone.

After this, Mum and my relationship strengthened and she confided more in me, her confidence growing as she came to realise that I could be trusted. On the other hand, my relationship with my father deteriorated. For years he had made no secret of the fact that I was to study law after leaving school. No arguments would be accepted, I was to follow in his footsteps. However, when I enrolled to study psychology, he nearly had a hernia on the spot, but eventually, and with Mum's support, he agreed, with the worst possible grace, to allow me one year in psychology with the expectation that I would switch to law in my second year. After which, he never missed an opportunity to denigrate the profession of psychology, which, in practice, only reinforced my determination.

Shortly after my twentieth birthday, there was a big change in Mum. She had always dressed stylishly but conservatively, in tailored business suits, dresses coming just below the knee and blouses buttoned to her neck. But all of a sudden, this changed. Her skirts were frequently higher, showing more leg. She started to wear 3" heels with stockings, and her tops now emphasised the shape and swell of her beautiful breasts. Her makeup became more obvious and her perfume stronger and I just didn't understand this change.

After about three months of this, I asked Mum what had led her to start dressing this way, and I was shocked by her answer. Mum blushed a deep red, and I realised that it was taking all of her courage to tell me. "Jesse, honey, this is so very difficult for me to tell my son, but I don't know who else I can turn to. Please, please don't breathe a word to another soul."

I agreed, but with a great deal of apprehension.

"Over the last couple of years," she went on, "your father has shown less and less interest in me. I'm now lucky if he wants to make love once a month, and ... well, that's just a quick in and out, missionary style until he satisfies himself." She blushed deeply again and stammered, "well, you see ..., well, I ... I, ... oh god, this is so hard."

"Look, Mum, I love you -- you can tell me anything at all, and I won't be embarrassed. I won't judge you or be at all critical and if it helps, close your eyes while you tell me."

"Thank you, sweetheart. Okay, well ...," she hesitated again, but then blurted out, "You see, I have a strong sex drive, and once a month isn't nearly enough for me. I masturbate," she blushed again, "but I need someone to hold me, caress me and make love to me. I'm hoping that if I dress more provocatively, at home at least, your father will be more responsive."

"I see," I offered, but I secretly didn't believe this had much chance of success. "Have you ever thought of what they call an 'extra-marital relationship'?" I enquired.

Mum shook her head. "I couldn't do that to your father, and in any case, if he ever found out, he'd throw me out just like that."

"Come here, Mum. I know I'm your son, and there are limits as to how far we should go, but I can at least hold you and caress the more public parts of your body," I said and was rewarded with a warm smile and a tight hug, and I could feel the soft curves of her body pushed tightly against me.

"Jesse, darling, I don't know what I'd do without you."

"I hope you never have to find out, Mum."

Then, all of a sudden, everything blew up in Mum's and my face. I had been ordered to have a discussion with my father about my studies, and this time he laid it unequivocally on the line. It was the start of the break before the final term, and he made his position crystal clear. "You will lodge application papers to transfer from psychology to law not later than the final week of this coming term. If you fail to do so, you will leave this house for good, and I will cut you off completely. I will not be defied about this."

"But, Dad ..." I started.

"Shut up, Jesse. My decision is final." He walked to the door of his study and shouted, "Carole, get in here NOW."

My mother came in hurriedly with a look of alarm on her face. "What's happened, Denzel, what's the problem?"

"I've just told your worthless son that he will transfer to law or he will be thrown out of this house and I will have nothing more to do with him."

"Oh god, Denzel, you can't do that," Mum cried, "I can't lose Jesse, he's so important to me and it will ruin his future -- he has no aptitude for law."

"He's probably more important to you than I am," my father sneered, "and what gives you the ability to judge his aptitude, I would like to know? And while we're at it how come you have started to dress like a cheap whore? You parade around this house dressed like a slut and I won't tolerate that any more."

Mum was devastated. "Den, I know our sex life hasn't been all it should and I thought it was my fault. I tried to dress more provocatively so that you might find me more desirable and we could become closer again."

My father laughed, a thoroughly unpleasant sound. "You fool. I thought you would've got the message by now. So far as I am concerned, sex is about the procreation of children, and I've done my job there -- none too successfully, it appears. You are supposed to be my wife not some trollop selling herself to anyone who can pay. You will cook for me, do my laundry and keep the house and support me in such social situations where a partner is needed. Other than that, we have no relationship."

I jumped to my feet. "You lousy bastard, talking to my mother like that. I've got a good mind to beat the crap out of you -- and I could do it too."

"No, Jesse, don't," my mother pleaded in a flat, emotionless voice, and my father jumped in. "This time, listen to your mother. Lay one finger on me, and I'll have you in court for assault so fast you won't know what hit you. Then bang goes any form of future for you, law, psychology or anything. You'll be lucky to get a job as a street sweeper."

"I'm leaving you, Denzel, and I'm entitled to at least half of your assets," my mother said in the same flat emotionless voice, but my father laughed again, the same unpleasant sound.

"Oh yes, I can't stop you, and I wouldn't even try. But if you think you're getting one penny piece of what I own, you're sadly mistaken. You might think you can claim that in court, but don't forget I'm a lawyer and a very successful one. I have the knowledge and contacts to tie up any such action in the courts until you're a little old nobody in a wheelchair, to say nothing of being bankrupt over legal fees. Now both of you get out of my sight and think about what I've said." Then he turned away with a self-satisfied smirk, knowing he had the upper hand.

Mum was sitting quietly in the lounge with an uncharacteristically hard, set look on her face. "Well, that appears to be it, I suppose. I either stay here as a domestic drudge with the occasional privilege of being his partner at some boring legal show, or I leave and become destitute. Not much of a choice, is it?"

"Mum, why don't you just up and go -- you've got a well paid job and you could look out for yourself?"

"Honey, it's not as easy as that -- I haven't told you this, but my job is not secure. There's a lot of downsizing going on, and I could be out in the cold. Budget cuts and all that. Besides, your father has too many contacts in the finance world, and he wouldn't hesitate using them to stop me getting another job."

"Oh god, Mum," I replied, "look, if you'd be prepared for me to come with you, I could get myself a job and we could manage somehow."

"Now listen, young man," Mum said in the closest approximation of severity that I'd ever heard from her, "you will not sacrifice your career like that. I won't tolerate it," she finished in a fair mockery of my father. "And anyway, we've got a couple of months to think about this before his ultimatum to you takes effect."

I nodded dumbly, and the conversation ended there.

To say that the next two months were stressful was an understatement, but on the positive side, Dad was absent a lot of the time on big deal cases. Shortly after he returned home from one of these, Mum received an invitation to a big industry dinner/dance, and she was ecstatic. It meant that she could get some exposure to movers and shakers in her area, with the possibility of either shoring up her current position, or getting her face known for future possibilities. In an excess of enthusiasm, she approached Dad and begged him to accompany her.

Mum told me after that he had flatly rejected her, saying that he made the social decisions and he wasn't going to waste his time on this. Full stop.

Mum was quite distressed about his rejection, and I found her in the kitchen in tears. "I should have expected this," she wept, "but I did hope that he might just make this one exception for me. I can't possibly go alone and this will make me look like such a loser."

Mum sobbed bitterly and I made a decision that was to change both our lives. "I would be honoured to escort you to the ball, Cinderella. You could introduce me as your son, a family friend or a distant relative, I don't care, but I want to be there for you."

Mum looked at me with a mixture of disbelief and hope in her eyes. "You'd do that for me -- it's not exactly a young person's activity -- there will be lots of boring speeches and more than a few old fogies, but if you would go with me, I think it could save my life."

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